Read Chapter 5: A Trail of Lies

The industrial quarter smelled of diesel and brine, a sharp contrast to the marble and yachts of the Monte Carlo harbor. Victor drove a battered Citroën he’d procured from somewhere—Camille didn’t ask—and parked three blocks from the workshop Bellamy had allegedly never abandoned. The building was a squat concrete box with rust-stained walls and a single steel door. No signage. No windows at street level.

Camille pressed her palm flat against the doorframe, feeling the faint tremor of machinery beneath her fingers. “You said the forger had knowledge of my father’s work. Bellamy had that knowledge. But you also said he died five years ago.”

“I said he supposedly died,” Victor corrected. He was already walking the perimeter, his expensive oxfords scuffing on gravel, those restless eyes cataloging every detail—the camera above the loading bay, the fresh tire marks in the dust, the smear of silver paint on the door handle. “People like Bellamy don’t die. They rebrand.”

She pulled the blue diamond ring from her pocket, the stone catching a thin slice of sunlight. The hallmark was there, barely larger than a grain of rice: CB, struck twice, the second strike slightly off-center. Her father had complained about that hallmark for years. Said it was sloppy work from a man who would never learn precision.

“He’s not here,” she said.

Victor stopped, turned. “How do you know?”

“The machinery’s running too evenly.” She tilted her head toward the building. “That’s a graduated polishing wheel. Bellamy inherited my father’s obsession with consistency. He would never leave that running unattended. But the foreman—if he’s alive and on-site—he’s waiting for someone to walk in and look exactly as lost as we do.”

Victor smiled, a thin and knowing thing. “You’ve gotten better at this.”

“I got better at cleaning up messes other people made.”

He didn’t argue. Instead, he produced a key from his jacket—a heavy, old-fashioned iron key with a scratched brass head—and fitted it into the lock. It turned with a soft click.

Camille’s jaw tightened. “You had a key this whole time?”

“I said he owed me two million,” Victor replied, pushing the door open. “That’s not the kind of debt you collect without leaving a mark on his house.”

The interior was larger than the exterior suggested. A long workbench ran the length of the main room, covered in clamps, loupes, and bottles of silver polish. The air was thick with the smell of hot metal and kerosene. Industrial shelving units held trays of raw stones—mostly garnets and topaz, low-grade, probably legitimate wholesale stock to keep the authorities bored.

But Camille didn’t look at the stones. She looked at the far wall.

Three plaster casts hung there, each one the size of a dinner plate, each one bearing the unmistakable negative impression of a five-pointed star with a coiled serpent threaded through the points. The Cœur de Neptune’s signature clasp design. Her father had drawn it by hand in 1987, and again in 1994 for the commissioned re-cut. The star points were sharp, exact, the serpent’s body curved with just that slight asymmetry that made the piece impossible to machine-copy.

“They’re using his molds,” she whispered.

Victor moved past her, picking up a cardboard shipping tube from the bench. He shook out a rolled document—a customs manifest, stamped with the Port of Monaco’s seal. “Marseille. Departing in eight days.” He scanned further. “But look at the schedule above it.”

On the corkboard above the bench, a grid of dates and destination codes had been marked in grease pencil. Most of the entries were crossed out. One was circled twice in red: tomorrow, 0600, freight hold, container 44-B.

Camille’s chest tightened. “That’s less than twenty-four hours from now.”

“If the real necklace is on that ship, it’s gone before I can get my finder’s fee.” Victor’s voice was cool, but she caught the flicker in his eyes—a genuine flicker, not the practiced charm. He folded the manifest and slipped it into his coat. “We need to confirm it’s in the container, or we’re chasing ghosts.”

“And if Bellamy’s not here?”

“Then we find out who’s been keeping his seat warm.”

A heavy door at the rear of the workshop swung open.

The man who stepped through was no one’s idea of a jeweler. He was broad-shouldered, with forearms knotted like hawsers and a face that had been broken more than once. His work apron was stained with something darker than polish. Behind him, two younger men hovered in the shadows of the back room, arms crossed.

“Victor Devereux.” The man’s voice was a low rumble, like stones grinding. “I was hoping you were stupid enough to come back.”

Victor spread his hands in a gesture of theatrical surrender. “Ferrand. You’re looking prosperous. The mold business must be treating you well.”

“The mold business,” Ferrand repeated. He stepped closer, and Camille saw the knuckles on his right hand were scarred—old knife wounds, maybe, or the aftermath of broken glass. “You mean the business you stole from me.”

Victor didn’t flinch. “I unloaded a shipment you couldn’t move. That’s not theft. That’s liquidity.”

“You took two million euros of liquidity, and you left me holding an empty safe and a police dossier.” Ferrand gestured to the younger men, who moved to flank the door. “My partner went to prison for that. You ever think about him, when you’re sleeping in your hotel suites in Monte Carlo?”

“I think about him more than I think about you,” Victor said.

Ferrand’s hand shot out and grabbed Victor by the collar, slamming him against the shelving unit. Trays rattled, and a cascade of raw stones scattered across the concrete floor. Victor didn’t resist. He just smiled, that same patient smile that made Camille want to throttle him.

“You’re not here to steal from me again,” Ferrand said, his face inches from Victor’s. “You’re here because you’re desperate. That necklace you’re chasing—the one that got swapped out at the auction—you think I don’t know the details? This town talks. And Bellamy’s name is on every tongue that mentions it.”

“Then you know who took the original,” Camille said.

Ferrand’s eyes slid to her. He studied her for a long moment—the pleated trousers, the careful posture, the jeweler’s callouses on her fingertips that she’d never managed to soften. “You’re the Laurent girl. The one whose father trained the man who ruined him.”

“Bellamy didn’t ruin my father. He betrayed him.”

“Same thing.” Ferrand released Victor, stepping back. “Your father’s dead, the apprentice’s dead, and yet here we are, standing in a workshop that smells like both of them.” He pointed to the plaster casts on the wall. “You see those? Those are leftover from the last job. Partial molds. The shipping schedule’s already been paid for, the container’s already sealed. Whatever is in that cargo hold isn’t moving for anyone.”

Camille worked to keep her voice steady. “Is Bellamy alive?”

Ferrand laughed, a bitter sound. “You think I’d tell you that? You think I’d tell him anything about you?” He turned back to Victor. “You've got twenty-four hours to leave Monaco. If I see you again, I won’t just break your hands. I’ll make sure you can’t ever charm another mark out of their mother’s jewelry box.”

He walked to the back door, pausing at the threshold. “And send my regards to Falk. Tell him his money’s still not coming.”

Then he was gone, the door slamming behind him. The two younger men held their positions, watching Victor and Camille with dull, patient eyes.

Victor straightened his collar, brushing dust from his shoulder. “Well. That could have gone better.”

Camille grabbed his arm, her grip iron. “Falk. Who is Falk?”

Victor’s jaw tightened. “Not now.”

“Now,” she insisted. “The man you owe. He owns Ferrand’s debt too, doesn’t he? And if Ferrand’s shipping that container for Falk, then the necklace is already inside Falk’s network. You walked us into a debt collector’s house without telling me.”

“I didn’t know Ferrand was still working for him.”

“You knew Ferrand was here.”

Victor’s silence was all the answer she needed. Camille released his arm, stepping back. Her fingers went to the ring in her pocket, the cool weight of it grounding her.

“You’re using me,” she said quietly. “You have been since the auction. I’m not the partner you want. I’m the shield you hide behind.”

For a flicker, Victor’s composure cracked—just a seam, barely visible. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. Finally, he said, “The container’s sealed. If we can’t open it before it ships, the necklace disappears into Falk’s private inventory. My fee becomes a liability. Your name becomes the one attached to a counterfeit scandal that will end your career.”

He picked up a partial mold from the bench, turning it over in his hands. “We have less than twenty-four hours to prove the necklace is in that container. And the only man who can confirm it is Christophe Bellamy—who is apparently not dead, not missing, and not in this room.”

The mold caught the light, and Camille saw it—a hairline crack running through the serpent’s belly where it met the star’s lowest point. A flaw her father would have scrapped. A flaw Bellamy had never learned to correct.

She pocketed the ring and looked at Victor. “Then let’s find the ghost.”